


Where is the Lie?

by shelleysprometheus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Missing Blog Post, POV John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 05:39:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14805404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shelleysprometheus/pseuds/shelleysprometheus
Summary: All we know, all we can ever know, is how we feel.





	Where is the Lie?

That isn't our story.

That wasn't our story.

We weren't what they wanted, what they expected, what they told us to be.

I always cared what they thought. He never did. Or at least if he did he, never really showed it. Occasionally he would slip up, reveal a part of himself that he always tried to keep hidden; the parts he didn't like, the parts he didn't trust.

If I had my way, I would have kept it, us frozen in time. None of the after. Just this. That night.

I hold that night in my head, in my hands, in my heart. It's fragile, like the thinnest of glass. It feels like, if I hold too tight my fingers will shatter it, but if I don't hold it tight enough, it will slip through my fingers and shatter at my feet.

I can't break it, its all I have left. Of him.

And I never did say it. I made my excuses, my justifications, I got on with life. Isn't that what one does. Soldiers on? Doctors the truth?

I shouldn't care what they think, what they still think, but I do. I want to tell them, scream at them, ram it down their throats. They are the reason, the reason why it keeps slipping, threatening to shatter.

But I can't say it. Will never say it.

I'm tired now. Tired of the sorrow. Tired of the rage. Tired of living without him.

I haven't seen any of them in a long time. At first they came round regularly, to talk, to chat, to check in. But eventually that all stopped. We all got on with our lives, with our respective losses.

It's a fools game, I know, but sometimes when l am lying awake at night, waiting for the darkness to take me, I think “if only". If only I had, if only I did. If only I knew how it was going to end.

I would have done it differently.

I thought that time would make it easier. But its it's becoming harder instead. I have to stop talking to people. I never bring it up but they always do. It, he will always define me. Once that was all I ever wanted, now it's a curse, it's a weight around my neck dragging me under. I know that sooner or later it is going to drown me.

Maybe now I am looking for redemption, in this purgatory I now find myself. But it's not that simple. Its It's never that simple.

Whose story is it anyway, in the end. Mine, his, ours, theirs? All we know, all we can ever know, is how we feel.

And somewhere in there, in that, is the truth.


End file.
